Remembering Dreams

A flash of green,

the face of someone mouthing words

you can’t hear or remember —

sometimes all that returns is the curve

of the plank bridge you cross, the wonder of

outstretched wings, your body

riding the air between.

Nights, you lie impatient

for sleep, for noises to jolt you awake

mid-dream — the sound of the child

rising from her bed at the foot of your bed,

staring out the window, then peering at you,

your closed eyes, making sure you’re

still here, the child not knowing

you are awake & listening.

You wait for reruns —

the dream of the lion, the snakes

surrounding the bed, the long corridors,

pitched ramps, stair steps

hollowed by boot soles

leading you higher & higher to room after room,

family & roommates, always

the old house.

You wait for the rare dreams

where your mother is alive

& going her patient way —

“being a mother is learning how to wait”

she would say at the doctor’s office,

at piano lessons, & afterward waiting alone

the rest of her life for letters & calls, waiting

through the long dream of her death.

Before first light

you wait & listen, dreams gone by

except in bursts — one actor

center stage, spots blazing, grease-paint

running, her mouth round & open

she speaks into the memory

of your other world.